


Shadows Flicker in the Night

by Carradee



Series: Servants of Flame and Gloom [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Republic (Comics), Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Dark, Deep Cover, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Implied Consent, Lies, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Mind Games, POV Third Person, Past Sexual Assault, Present Tense, Psychological Trauma, spy!Jedi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-01-23 03:47:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12498044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carradee/pseuds/Carradee
Summary: Jedi Knight Quinlan Vos doesn’t think much of the assignment, at first, but then he notices that even the High Council doesn’t realize what they’re ording him todo.This mission will be the death of him, whether from the darksiders he’ll be dealing with or the punishment when he gets back for what’s going to ultimately prove necessary.But someone has to do it, and he’s the best option the Order has.Warning:The on-page relationship contains dubious albeit implied consent.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For why I'm writing this, see the end note.
> 
> Short version: I want spy!Jedi shenanigans and witting scapegoat Quinlan.
> 
> Just be warned that this gets pretty darn dark, okay?
> 
> **Note:** I'm aro ace—as in, I literally do not experience lust and such, myself. My apologies if that results in misrepresentation of that popular experience and the associated pastime.

Jedi Knight Quinlan Vos doesn’t think much of the assignment, at first. Investigating rumors, hints, is his track and trade, and Tholme taught him to walk in the shadows. The oddest part is that the orders are being given by the High Council, not the Council of Shadows (which is technically part of the Council of First Knowledge, not that most Jedi know it exists).

Quinlan is pretty sure that even the high councilors don’t necessarily have the clearance to know about that, judging from how many are suspicious of him for the wrong things. So much of the Order assumes him to be a bastard who fights and frips the time away that he sometimes wonders who they think is getting his missions done, before he remembers that most of his work is too classified for most to know what he’s actually accomplished.

He forces himself to focus on what the High Council’s telling him. The assignment details, the goals and priorities, tell him what he’ll have to do, what he’ll have to _be_ , to seek the identity of the second Sith, partner of the one that killed Master Jinn. Assassin, slaver, and general scum all come immediately to mind.

He looks Master Windu in the eyes. There’s no guilt or regret there, so the Master of the Order doesn’t get the significance of the orders he’s giving—maybe even _won’t_ get it, even after the evidence is in his face.

Quinlan understands, even then, what this mission will cost him.

He glances at Master Mundi, who’s sad enough to make up for it, but Mundi doesn’t have the same clout Windu does. Mundi can’t block an execution order, and he doesn’t have a reputation of fighting darkness that will let him be taken seriously, when the time comes. Assuming they all survive to that point.

“Do understand your assignment?” Windu asks.

The _High Council_ doesn’t understand what they’ve wanting him to do, but Quinlan’s used to seeing things others don’t, so he doesn’t laugh.

The Jedi _need_ to find out what’s going on, _need_ to uncover who the other Sith is before they’re too tangled to escape the web they’re caught in. (If they aren’t trapped already. All the talk of systems seceding feels like a set of stack tiles, where just a flick on one will bring all the rest down. He has the sense they’ve missed something—but he’s felt that ever since the glitteryll stole his memory, so maybe it’s just him.)

“Dig into the Separatist movement with the end purpose of identifying of the second Sith by whatever means necessary,” he stated.

The ‘by whatever means necessary’ is the part that makes the mission feasible, even while it’s also what’ll damn him. He won’t come out of this alive, whether from the darksiders he’ll be dealing with or from the punishment when he gets back, for what’s going to ultimately prove necessary.

But someone has to do it, and he’s the best option the Order has. Doesn’t stop a heavy weight from settling in his gut as he tilts his chin and says:

“Got it.”

* * *

The Sith that Obi-Wan killed also shouldn’t have been able to follow Amidala from Tatooine to Naboo in time to be waiting among the Trade Federation’s people at the Battle of Theed. The Sith had insider intel, to get ahead of them like that. And the rate of Jedi being betrayed and dying has only increased in the past few years.

There’s an information leak, somewhere, and it’s wide open.

That’s why Quinlan ghosts into deep cover without telling anyone, following whispers of a dark, cloaked man who pushes for the Republic to fall apart. His spy network will have to speak for him, and he’ll have to trust Tholme to understand that. Force, he _hopes_ Tholme gets it, but his erstwhile master doesn’t always understand what Quinlan expects him to.

How ‘impressive’ Tholme finds Quinlan’s spy network is a case in point. He isn’t doing anything all that odd or special or even hard, to attract and build contacts. He’s just _listening_.

His memory is full of holes, courtesy of shit done to him, but he remembers all too clearly Tholme fretting on Kiffex, specifying that it wasn’t necessary to kill their enemies. His former master had apologized, but…

Why the kriff had he thought he needed to _tell_ him that?

Quinlan sticks to his clan name, Vos, and pitches himself as a former Guardian of Kiffex, the prison world for the Kiffar, and a current gun for hire.

His gun gets hired for plenty of things that break Jedi mores. Hauling a debtor to the mob boss they owe, guarding a shipment of slaves, smuggling death sticks into the Core. How else is he supposed to play nice with folks who despise the Order and its scruples?

Mercenaries have an expressly solitary existence, which ironically makes it less stressful, in some ways, than being a Jedi. Jedi are never alone, yet he…always is, somehow. He doesn’t know if it’s the memory loss or something about _him_ , specifically, but he’s read his old mission reports, and something about them feels every bit as as lonely as he is now.

Using his clan name helps a little—it’s a reminder that he is part of something bigger than himself, even while the anonymity of it erases him from existence. He wonders, sometimes, if he’ll end up an anonymous corpse tossed out an airlock, and if Aayla will come looking for his body if he does.

But there’s no benefit in pondering that, so he makes himself focus on the mission, on doing what he must to maintain his cover as he hunts through the shadows of society.

Part of what he has to do is provide objective evidence that he isn’t a Jedi at heart. He’s been rude and even cruel to other mercenaries and their ilk, but he can’t bring himself to take the step of actually fripping someone, of using their body for his pleasure.

He doesn’t know why the prospect turns his stomach. Something in the lost memories, maybe, or maybe it’s just a holdover from what could’ve happened to him on Dathomir.

His ability to ‘read’ memories off objects has given him sufficient knowledge that he can flirt and fake more firsthand experience than he has (or maybe just than he remembers), but… Between the crowd he’s in, how long he’s going to have to spend in cover, and how many species and scanners can tell when clothes lack traces of sweat, musk, ejaculate. It’s just a matter of time before he’ll _have_ to.

Sentients frip. Sentients who care only about their own wants slake their lusts at others’ expense. The longer he ignores that, the weaker his cover becomes, unless he wants to castrate himself.

(He considers it. Seriously, honestly considers it—but the side effects would cause more problems than they solved, and that’s aside from how memorable it would make him.)

Some of his agents would indulge him, he thinks, but he’s not about to risk their covers to strengthen his own.

Quinlan’s in the underbelly of Kuat, after an ineffectual day trying to track down the origins of the dead Sith’s ship, see if the money trail points to Republic or Separatist ties, now. (He needs to steal some files. Still figuring out how he’s gonna do that.)

He’s strolling through the redlight district and coaxing his conscience through the fact that he _has_ to stomach this. Renting a whore is kinder than breaking some poor sentient’s heart. He doesn’t have to be violent with her, just use her. The sooner he gets it over with, the easier it’ll be.

The easier it gets, the more he’s going to be doing it, for his own safety and cover—and that, he thinks, is the crux of his reluctance.

He doesn’t even know what he likes. _If_ he likes anything. His memories of sex belong to other people, ‘read’ off objects he’s touched, and therefore display how it feels to _them_. With his luck, he’ll start his reputation with something that isn’t his natural inclination.

He can force the biological reactions. It’s an unconventional application of the Force, potentially useful—but it would be a weakness in his cover, since other Force-sensitives would be able to detect him doing so.

All the more reason to start now, to give him time to _find_ his body’s preferences. He probably even knew them once, before the glitteryll.

(He’s tried not to be bitter about that—he’s released it to the Force like a good little Jedi, again and again—but he’s reluctant to now, as the feeling only helps his cover.)

There’s a cry in the Force, and he carefully angles in that general direction—he can’t run, can’t even head that way directly until the scuffle hits his physical senses.

_There. Down that alley._ Some mercs insisting a woman owes them. He’s not sure if there’s something else they want but they’ll substitute her body, or if her body’s what they’re after altogether, but he doesn’t much care. It’s five on one and the signs of an impending gang rape are depressingly familiar.

Quinlan swaggers in, unwilling to let them hurt and possibly kill this girl. Not when he has opening and opportunity to stop them. _And maybe she’ll repay you for saving her_ occurs to him, but he stomps on that thought, even while he recognizes that saving someone only to use her himself would go far to ‘prove’ he’s no Jedi.

The fight is five on one, but he manages to take them all out with remarkable ease, possibly because he approaches them with his weapons sheathed and they’re overconfident. One takes himself out of the fight by tripping on his own pants.

Quinlan relieves them of their belongings and tosses their unconscious bodies out of the alley, into the ditch running alongside the street, before he turns back to the girl.

Her fishnet tights need replacing, one slender sleeve needs mending (it’s dangling, at least half torn off), and her purple hair warrants a good combing. The cult tattoo on her abdomen flexes with her gasping breaths, and the inverted triangles inked by her eye doubtless mean something.

He carefully keeps his gaze on her face as she fixes her microshorts with trembling hands.

Her green eyes dart from him towards her erstwhile attackers—and to their weapons and accessories, too, so she understands the implications of how easily he took them out. What that means about him and his position in the fringe of society.

Her attackers were small fry.

He’s a professional, doubtless a killer.

Her fear is warranted, but that doesn’t make it any less distasteful. He offers her a hand up.

She peers up at him, flicking some of her hair out of her face. Her eyes—such a vibrant green that he wonders if they’re natural or a body modification like the purple of her hair—stare into his.

She hesitates, then accepts his help. “Um, thanks?”

“Need bacta?” The question surprises him, makes him wonder when he noticed the blood on her thigh.

His body stirs with arousal. He neuters the reaction with the Force, praying the injury isn’t what triggered it. He has enough shit against him. He doesn’t need a kink for blood to add to it.

She tilts her head and peers up at him sidelong, considering him with more attentiveness than he receives from even other Jedi.

He doubts she understands, but he can’t help but test it—he shifts slightly, using his weight and angle of his arm and direction of his head to subtly and wordlessly invite her to come with him out of the alley.

Her answer is a drop of a shoulder, a tilt and turn of the hip that indicate unspoken acquiescence.

Fire surges through him, and he stares at her a breath too long.

Her shoulders fold in, giving voice to nervousness. “Thanks for the save. Um. Can I go now?”

He must’ve misread her comprehension of his invitation. The lust extinguishes, just like that. He takes a step back, ready to leave her alone—

But he’s _Vos_ , mercenary, and respecting her is the Jedi thing to do.

He makes himself push into her space, even while his stomach rolls at what he’s doing to a _victim_. “Why’d they grab you?”

“I don’t know!”

That’s a lie.

“I… I’m a thief, okay? I must’ve picked the wrong mark. I don’t think they’ll hit me again. You can go.”

Truth, misdirection, and two lies.

The Force is the only way he knows that. If she has tells, he’s not spotting them.

The Force is the only way he stops his gorge from rising, too, as he grabs her by the arm and pulls her along with him. “I don’t think so. You owe me.”

She flinches. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

It’s the perfect opening for him to cement his cover, demanding sexual congress in exchange for the rescue, from someone who might even be to his natural tastes.

He can’t do it.

Her arms are folded against her ample bosom.

_They’re big tits, you dumbass._ Polite, posh language would be a stupid way to get killed.

“So…” she says. “You want it here on the street or in a motel? I mean, _five_ guys…” Her voice turns small. “I guess that means you paid for five…”

He forces himself to keep casual, to ignore her fear and his own disgust. “Oh, I don’t know. Five of their caliber… Only worth one professional pick, don’t you think?”

He _does_ need some files stolen—maybe they’ll help him track, but even if not, recovering them is ‘proof’ he’s focused on the Sith Obi-Wan killed, not anyone else. Copies will suffice, so it should be easier and safer than a steal-and-burn. She has the smarts to pull it off, he thinks, though he’s not sure about her experience.

She freezes, and he doesn’t let himself stop or release his grip, so she stumbles a little. He glances down to check that she hasn’t hurt herself, and she’s peering up at him again, relief and something that might be shock softening her face.

He stops them both in a nook away from passersby. Gives her a moment to gather herself. Asks, pointedly, “ _Are_ you a professional?”

He doesn’t specify _what_ she’s a professional at.

She nods. The openness of her expression makes him think his first read was right, that she’d understood what he’d said without speaking, and lust flares up again.

Quinlan converts his urge to chuckle into a huff of breath. He straightens her torn sleeve and regrets that she’s probably a plant. Her presence is too convenient for him to dare assume otherwise.

Plant or not, he can still utilize her. The results will be informative.

“I need copies of some files from the shipyards. Sound like something you can do?”

She’s considering him, again. “And if it isn’t, you’ll…what? Take your payment against this wall?”

The question is a test, and he responds in kind without blinking. “Maybe.”

If he’s honest with himself, part of him _wants_ to press her against the wall and… The burn and fugue of desire are _shit_ for maintaining focus. No wonder so many female assassins play whore.

She flinches again.

His desire evaporates, thankfully. It’s not something he usually has to deal with, and he’s not sure what’s triggering it. At least fear’s a turn-off.

(He is exceedingly relieved about that. He has no way of knowing what all his body’s been conditioned to respond to. What he does know about is bad enough, and he’s sure that’s only the tip of the iceberg.)

(When has he ever seen an iceberg?)

She’s gripping her own forearms in discreet self-comfort. “You gotta address on the files?”

He jerks his chin in wordless command to come with, as he heads back towards the motel he preselected for the night. She obeys, wearing a blend of nonchalance and anxiety.

She’s also in pain, which shows only by an intermittent hitch in her stride and breath.

The motel understandably heightens her anxiety, but he ignores that as he tosses her a bacta patch and scans for bugs.

She is, unsurprisingly, still holding the patch when he finishes clearing out the blackmail prep left by the place’s proprietor.

“What’s the cost?” she asks, regarding the bacta patch.

“Consider it the down payment.”

She frowns. “And what you call what you did to those goons?”

He lets the curl of his lip convey the entirely wrong impression. “Insurance.”

She hunches, putting her side facing him in basic defense. (Easier to curl up or roll away from a grab or blow, that way.) “Oh.”

The response is all right for a woman intimidated by someone who’s just threatened to finish what the goons started, if she doesn’t follow through on the pick, but the Force calls it a misdirection.

Her anxiety is real, but the fear? That’s feigned, probably in effort to assuage his presumed ego. He’s not the scariest thing she’s ever seen or dealt with, and something tells him he’d have to dig into the nastier things he’s ‘read’ in order to punish her in a way she’s not already experienced.

The sheer armbands covering her arms mask some scars that might be tracks, but no stretch marks on her stomach or thighs. No kids, then, unless she had access to more expensive medical care than present circumstances suggest. The conclusion brings him relief he knows better than to dwell on.

“Take the fresher. I’ll collect the details on what you’re stealing for me.” He doesn’t look at her as he says it, for his eyes will be too kind.

She flicks the bacta patch, an audible signal that she’s accepting it, probably even a wordless thank-you. “You gotta name?”

_Vos_ , he needs to say. He’s an anonymous member of a clan, not a person.

When she speaks again, she sounds closer to the fresher. “I’m Khaleen.”

He glances back, confirms she’s where he thought, and identifies genuine curiosity in her curiously light presence in the Force. She sees him as a _person_ —sees _him_ in a way that even many (most. all?) Jedi don’t, and he can’t sabotage that.

“Korto,” he makes up on the spot.

An ever-so-slight (and ever-so-slightly flirtatious) smile flits across her lips. “Okay, _Korto_ ,” she says. “Get me what I need, and I’ll have what _you_ need, before you know it.”

Khaleen’s hips sway with bravado as she steps in the fresher and closes the door, putting herself in a room where he could so easily entrap her, if he wanted. Intimidate her, if he wanted. Rape her, and do at least as much damage as her earlier attackers were going to inflict. _And she knows that._ Probably firsthand.

He’s not sure if that makes him more awed or appalled.

Quinlan sets about preparing the information she’ll need for the job. It’s a safer line of thought than mulling on why he’s so attracted to her.

It’s not her body, delicious though that is. (Jedi are _unattached_ , not blind.) It’s not the circumstances in which they met, either. (His spy network that impresses Tholme so much is mostly comprised of whores, and he’s no stranger to rescues like what he did tonight.)

His memory cycles through the examples Khaleen’s given, of understanding and speaking the language of subtext without saying a word, and desire flares up again. Quinlan stomps out the feeling before blood surges anywhere it shouldn’t.

If she’s as competent as she claims and as smart as he suspects…

_She’s probably a plant,_ he reminds himself.

_So flip her,_ answers the loneliness, burning in his heart.

She comes out of the fresher, all cleaned up, bacta patch out of sight but sleeve still askew, and he hands the flimsy of identification numbers for the hardware he needs data on.

She’s too casual, for an assault victim so soon alone in a bedroom with a man. It’s as calculated as her evaluation of the details he provides for what he needs, most of which are still in his head.

Khaleen repeats most of the pertinent details back to him without pause, and his loneliness pulses with _What if…?_

He carefully fences in the tiny flame of what he suspects is hope. It’s too early to even dare think she might be the _in_ he’s been looking for, for getting a line on the Sith, much less a solution to several of the weaknesses in his cover.

He lets his eyes smile, though, when she says she can have the files back to him by the following evening. “Good.”

And if the dropoff is ’accidentally’ close enough to local security that he’ll have to rescue her and she’ll owe him another pick, well… That’ll just make things easier on them both.

* * *

One pick leads to another, and Khaleen folds into his life, into his cover, so readily that she _has_ to be a plant. The focus of her lies and misdirections shift, though, and hope grows.

_Yes. Flip her,_ says his heart. Or maybe that’s just his dick?

Quinlan sighs as he digs through data, confirming a possible lead. She seems as confused by his willingness to let her repay him with her skills outside the bedroom as he is by just how badly he wants her for himself.

That desire for possession has him postponing demands for sexual favors for longer than is wise. She’s open to it. He thinks. If he’s reading her right.

“What can I do to help?” Khaleen asks, demonstrating the ability to read him that makes him want her so badly and hope the discreet signals she’s given are intentional, that she really is interested or at least willing.

His cover means he’ll have to finish what he starts, even if he’s wrong, and there’s only so long he can justify postponing his claim, if he’s going to use her body at all.

“Know anyone in the Wheel?” Consulting her expertise is a calculated risk. If she’s somehow _not_ a plant, her input can benefit the immediate goal. If she _is_ one, he’s building rapport and making his ultimate target think he’s fooled, letting them reel him in to where he needs to be.

And every time he trusts her advice, he can sense her loyalties shifting, through the lies she doesn’t tell.

“Might,” Khaleen answers. “What are you needing?”

He describes what he’s spotted—a communication nexus for the Separatists. “I need a slicer. Someone…discreet.”

She considers, and the hesitance and discomfort swirling in her emotions warn him as she says easily, “Sounds like a job for Tookarti. He’s a Chadra-Fan. Only takes jobs in person.”

The last sentence isn’t quite true—which makes sense, if Tookarti is also a plant. But it means Quinlan’s run out of time. Chadra-Fan senses surpass Humans’. If going to frip her, he can’t procrastinate any longer. Scents of the same age would be almost as suspicious as none at all.

And the way to stop procrastination is to tackle it, here and now.

He goes to the medpack, is blatant about checking the amount of contraceptive in it, compared to when he bought it, while waiting for her to make rendezvous the day after they met. A month ago, now.

She’s watching him, a little tense, not refusing. That lack of no isn’t necessarily a yes, but it’s too late for Korto Vos to back down for anything less. Her express consent is irrelevant, short of explicit refusal.

The Force keeps him steady, letting his body lie that he isn’t bothered by this, lets him overwhelm how much he _doesn’t_ want to do this with how much he _does_.

He stares her down and tosses the contraceptive at her in blatant statement of intent, an obvious opportunity for her to beg out. She’s been taking it—she’s no fool—and she catches the package. Tilts her head in acknowledgement, but that’s not desire. Sets it aside, sits on the motel bed, and starts unbuckling her boots, poised to lean back once they’re off. (Concession isn’t yes.)

Quinlan forces himself to remove his own boots. To remove both their pants, because the thought of her going down on him makes him shudder in a bad way. (There’s a missing memory there, he suspects, and he’s going to have to work through that.)

She doesn’t instigate, and she doesn’t protest _anything_ , even when he misjudges something and hurts her. His inexperience makes him take longer to notice that than he likes, though she doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe because he makes sure she gets pleasure, too—and her confusion and surprise at that makes him angry on her behalf, for how others have treated her.

“Surprised you waited so long,” she gasps, after.

He’s a gun for hire, not a Jedi, and she’s _gorgeous_. There’s only one justification he can make for delaying this. “Had to make sure you were clean.”

Her emotions curdle. He lets the silence lie still for a few minutes, then reaches for her again. Without testing, he can’t know the boundaries of what works for him, and he can’t trust her to _tell_ him hers.

He can’t be sure that it’s not rape, either.

* * *

A month passes, one where they make their way towards the Wheel. Word had gotten to him of a disk carrying Separatist orders, and he’d set up a meet only to find the would-be informant dead.

The leak isn’t Khaleen—her confusion was sincere—so he sets to tracking down where and how the informant had been found out. The hints lead him to a cantina in one of the seedier planetoids in the galaxy. Even as he’s here, he can’t be bothered to remember the name, some blend of astronavigation code and numerals. The ship’s navicomputer has the records—as will Tholme, the next time his former master prods the right contact for intel.

Khaleen’s beside him in the booth, leaning casually in a way that says she’s _his._ (It’s her doing, nothing he’s asked for. There’s still possibility that he’s abusing her, but her volunteered help at least gives reasonable implication of consent.)

He engages the other _sleemos_ present, using animated chatter to hide discreet brushes of his fingers against their clothing, seeking images and memories of a recent kill, in search of whoever eliminated his contact.

Khaleen’s attention flashes, harping in on something, and he’s looking for what caught her notice even before “Oh!” escapes her lips.

The quiet and pitch concern him. He looks at her.

The slight shake of her head dismisses what she’s noticed as nothing that matters, but her acceptance of when he accidentally _hurts_ her in bed makes him distrust that claim.

She shifts with discomfort, then quietly admits, “I was your first.”

He has to call upon the Force a bit, to dismiss the ruefulness, for even Jedi don’t notice that, and to set aside the longing for her notice to _mean_ something. He wonders what gave it away, if she’ll report it to her handler.

But that concern in her emotions is _for_ him, not _of_ him, and hope flutters.

He drapes his arm across her shoulders, a wordless thanks for the attention she pays to the details, to the disconnects between what he _wants_ to do and what he _has_ to do. Even if it’s just because she’s spying on him, he can still appreciate willingness to see _him_ , over the assumptions she makes about him.

(He knows better than to assume she notices because she cares about him. Even gratitude or affection wouldn’t be sufficient reason to stick around so much. She doesn’t have a death wish, despite how comfortable she is with the prospect of dying.)

After they finish in the cantina, they go back to the ship. There’s nobody to meet tomorrow, no need to frip.

Quinlan wants it. She still feels grateful when he pleasures her, and reciprocating the emotions she’s triggered in him is the best thank-you he can give. But if it’s _rape_ …

No. He won’t seek anything, not when there’s nothing risked by abstaining.

He watches her, though, and she approaches without any expectation that he’ll take her against the wall again.

Maybe he’s had other lovers or friends, somewhere in his missing memories, who noticed and heeded the details behind his choices, his actions, rather than clinging to assumptions. Maybe there’s someone else who knows him so well, someone who Jedi mission schedules and all have just kept him from meeting again, since his memory was stolen from him.

Maybe.

She’s the only one he knows. The only one he can remember.

Guilt floods her eyes, bows her shoulders, and destroys any doubts that remain about her being a plant.

She opens her mouth, her body saying that she wants to tell him the truth—but he can’t let her, can’t sabotage how she fits his mission, can’t endanger her by letting her undermine her usefulness to her handler.

He cuts her off with a kiss, deeper than he likes. (Something about tongue always makes his gut go cold.) It’s _her_ preference, though, and that’s why he does it. And it’s indisputably useful for shutting her up.

He doesn’t press for anything beyond that. Not even a cuddle.

_She_ does, initiating and leading with a hesitance that gives him plenty of opportunities to escape or stop, if he wants.

He doesn’t want.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After I discovered the character of Quinlan Vos, the details and comics pages made me stare in disbelief and _love_ him as a character. Life’s kicked him as much as it has Obi-Wan, but where Obi-Wan responds with self-flagellation, Quin goes for the X-rated woobies…
> 
> Or does he?
> 
> With his ability to ‘read’ memories from objects, I find it more likely that the reputation preceded the actions—that guilty persons lashed out and framed him before he could report them—and that he utilizes his reputation for the sake of his work.
> 
> In short, I view Quinlan Vos as a witting scapegoat.
> 
> Maybe I’m reading into things, but the more I’ve read featuring him that’s by his original creators, the more convinced I am that my interpretation is both plausible and indeed probably what they intended.
> 
> Why?
> 
> The first reason is the psychometry/telemetry/postcognition. Besides the threat it is to guilty folks, he’s also the strongest ‘reader’ of his generation, yet he can handle and read an object without faltering or reacting or zoning out so much for observers to notice. That has implications for the number of neurons and speed of his thought processes.
> 
> The second is that he’s shown to be so solid an actor/liar/manipulator that even those closest to him can’t tell—which requires fast observation, excellent memory, and unusual control of musculature. He adeptly adjusts what he shows to fit his audience, plus thinks even more steps ahead than he was taught to. There are elements of both nature and nurture which have to be in place, for that to result, and it also means his flagrant disregard for social norms is intentional or at least witting.
> 
> The third is that he acts and thinks several steps ahead of other characters. He even runs circles around Tholme, so Quin’s own intelligence level has to be in the top 1–2%, with an intelligence type that’s comparably rare.
> 
> Something people don’t always realize or admit? There are intelligence levels and types where others actively insist you’re idiot and target you for sabotage, due to incomprehension, jealousy, discomfort, fear, feeling threatened, etc. Even outright harm can result.
> 
> Even Dooku’s Legends!manipulation is consistent with the premise that Quin’s actually a higher IQ than those around him. When you see and calculate possibilities as a matter of course, it’s easy to lose track of _probability_. And then the more convolutions you’re having to think in—as Quin would have been, in his deep cover mission—the more you automatically incorporate in whatever you’re evaluating. And then his sunk costs in deep cover mission wouldn’t help him analyze clearly, because psychology. (I’m summarizing.)
> 
> The closest example I’ve seen to how I read Quin can be found in the Balance series by dogmatix and norcumi, specifically #7.
> 
> (What little Disney!canon I’ve seen so far implies his issues stem from emotional neglect in infancy. I find this shortsighted and outright offensive. The Wookiepedia description looks as if they cherry-picked some side effects of his original origins, removed the causes. That’s outside how some canon stories dumb him down to a degree that I find insulting.)
> 
> My understanding of Quin is also outright _blatant_ to me. I could explain why, delve into my own analogous experiences, describe things like growing up so thoroughly painted to others as a ‘storyteller’ that folks commonly assumed I’d made up my own name (before I started actively sabotaging that upon first meeting people) (but it was a decade more before I found out that folks’ assumption about my name was odd), but…
> 
> The there’s no easy way for me to explain it outright, because I obviously am starting from core understanding, life experiences, and logical connections that differ from the norm. A direct explanation doesn’t do much good unless the reader’s had their own analogous experiences with which to understand something. Otherwise, what the writer says and what the reader understands will not connect.
> 
> That’s not not anyone’s fault; it’s a side effect of how experiences affect comprehension. Just think of how “My parents are gonna kill me” means something very different when said by a child with genuinely loving parents vs. covertly abusive ones vs. overtly abusive ones vs. ones that have endangered their lives before.
> 
> (Age-old question: If someone habitually endangers you in allegedly accidental ways, is it paranoia to believe it’s on purpose?)
> 
> So I’m gonna _show_ one possible application of my core interpretation…and give myself a starting point for some pieces that’ll be affecting my other fanfics where he shows up.
> 
> And if it’s therapeutic for me, well… Bonus?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter derives from Legends!canon, specifically Star Wars: Republic comic #49: _Sacrifice_ , with some references to the _Darkness_ arc (#32–35) and the _Twilight_ arc (#19–22). Direct dialogue may be quotes from the comics.

Quinlan senses Aayla nearby even before she sends a flare in the Force, looking for him. Tholme must’ve failed to find the intel threads he left, sent her to make contact.

He doesn’t respond in the Force. She probably doesn’t sense him—he’s more attuned to auras than she is, possibly due to all the practice his psychometry gives him.

Khaleen’s late. He tracked the disk of Separatist intel to the Wheel, a space station in the Mid Rim known for its casinos, and sent her to intercept it, so they could copy it before sending it on its way. He stayed behind, while Tookarti ran his slices.

And Khaleen is _late_.

Worry and fear are more familiar than they should be, for a good Jedi, but he’s not been that in a long time, if he’s ever been. And he has more idea than most Jedi about what options Sith have for torturing those who betray them.

(Khaleen wasn’t as careful as she should have been with some of her belongings, leaving images for him to ‘read’. Her handler is Dooku himself.) (So is Tookarti’s.) (Quinlan supposes he should be flattered to be of such personal interest to the Separatist leader who’s recently announced himself as a Sith Lord, though former Jedi Master Dooku is the replacement of the Sith Obi-Wan killed, and not the one Quinlan must find.)

He stares at the empty chair where Khaleen’s supposed to join him and reminds himself she’s still reporting to Dooku, still useful to the Sith, not worth killing.

Problem is that doesn’t mean bantha kark, and not just because she’s being tactful about what she passes along.

Aayla pulses with frustration, annoyance.

He doesn’t let himself sigh, kicks back from the table, and heads to intercept her.

He’s not surprised to find her with Tookarti. He is surprised to find Tookarti _threatening_ Aayla, ordering some guards to beat on her. The Chadra-Fan is scum, but he’s a decent slicer, not a kingpin, and he insists Quinlan is his boss.

(Quinlan knows he isn’t, but he’s not supposed to, so Khaleen’s delay isn’t Tookarti’s doing. The Chadra-Fan wouldn’t make such blatant evidence of alternate priorities unless he expected Quinlan to be too occupied to show up.)

Aayla easily handles the situation and turns the tables on the Chadra-Fan, threatening to treat him to the pain he promised her.

Quinlan steps in before she has to make good on the threat. “Heard somebody was looking for me. Didn’t hear it from _you_ , Tookarti. What’s going on here?”

“Hello…Korto,” Aayla says, thankfully keeping his cover intact.

“So—you two do know each other?” Tookarti’s fear is palpable, and he starts blabbering justifications to Quinlan, insisting he was trying to protect him in case she was an assassin or something. It’s a decent act.

“Uh-huh.” he says, unimpressed, then looks to Aayla. “Why _are_ you here?”

Aayla wants a private conversation. No surprise, there.

“You find Khaleen yet?” he demands of the Chadra-Fan, who sputters a bit but has obviously pieced together that she’s missing from the fact that she’s absent. “Shouldn’t you go _do_ it?”

Tookarti leaps on the opportunity to obey and presumably prove his allegiance and shit.

Quinlan steps with Aayla into the nook he’s been using as an office, sweeps for bugs with the Force. None have been added since he last cleared it.

Aayla’s concern is palpable, as she brushes against him in the Force. It’s _that_ kind of check-in, then. The kind where he’s held accountable for things he has no way of remembering, yet expected to need reminding of things he already fripping _knows_.

( _‘Killing is not necessary.’_ As if he’d not already demonstrated that within moments of waking up without his memory, in a room on fire and everyone around him trying to kill him?)

His old master so obviously cares, but he just as obviously has no idea how to do so. (The memories of his mother’s murder burn, sometimes. He could’ve sorted and stored it, except Tholme shoved the medallion in his hands without warning.)

Quinlan’s been in deep cover for a few years now, ghosted for _months_ , and it’s a bit late to fret about his mental stability.

“Go back to Tholme,” he tells her. “Tell him I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” Aayla answers. “I _know_ you.”

He’s fine enough to do his job. He’ll _stay_ that way, as long as he has someone he can trust to pay attention to him rather than the façade, and that’s Khaleen. If she’s gone…

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the Battle of Geonosis, would it?” Aayla asks.

Ah. That’s why they’re checking on him now. Guilt does prick him on that, part of it for his refusal to heed the call to Geonosis (though it’s telling that nobody’s thought through the fact that _Mace could call him_ —Dooku was probably telling the truth that there’s a Sith high up the Republic, because nobody’s noticed that obvious, easy contact line that Quinlan took a lot of trouble to set up).

It had been difficult enough to discreetly set a secure channel so the Master of the Order could comm him. Going to rescue a captured Jedi, well…how would he have explained that to his contacts? How would Khaleen have explained that to her handler without setting herself up as useless and not worth maintaining?

He couldn’t risk that. Not for an alleged friend that he couldn’t remember. Khaleen is his anchor for keeping sane. And doesn’t that say something sad about his support network?

Case in point: Aayla, naming Geonosis as the core of what makes him not okay. But if she wants to go there…

“I failed,” he murmurs. “I’ve been out here for _two years_ , and I knew _nothing_ about what was being planned there—and two hundred Jedi _died_ there! _You_ might have died!”

And yeah, that bothers him. Eats at him. But it’s a leech on his thigh, not the crow that’s gnawing on his heart.

“But I didn’t,” she answers, as if that’s supposed to help. His point had been that she _could_ have died, not _what if_ she had. “And not even Master Yoda or Master Windu had any idea Count Dooku had gone over to the dark side.”

The crow grabs a beakful of flesh and twists, and it’s not due to her blatant—and too loud—violation of their covers. He’d _said_ what bothered him was how he’d heard nothing of the situation, so obviously orchestrated, which _could have_ killed her and _did_ kill others. Not the fact that Dooku’s Fallen to the dark.

“ _You_ taught me to accept responsibility for my mistakes and to let the rest _go_. Will you practice what you teach?”

Funny. He thought he was already doing that.

“Ummm… Boss Vos?” It’s Tookarti. At least Aayla’s words wouldn’t have alerted the Chadra-Fan of anything he doesn’t already know. “Good news, bad news.”

His gut clenches.

“Good news—found our thief. Hiding in a garbage pit nearby. Bad news? There’s a dianoga in the pit.”

Thank the Force that’s all. He snatches the information so he can fetch Khaleen before the ‘bad news’ is something worse.

Aayla follows him, and they enter the garbage pit just as Khaleen’s grabbed by the largest diagnoga he can remember seeing.

“I take it that’s the girl you’re looking for,” Aayla says dryly.

A girl who’s _in danger_. “Yes.”

He dives in the muck, shoots the dianoga directly. Aayla slashes the tentacle gripping Khaleen, and he makes sure his girl gets out first, before she can breathe (much?) of the waste.

( _His_ girl? That’s possession. Kriff.)

“She alive?” Aayla asks, even before he’s out, though she’s the one on the ledge with Khaleen.

“Yes,” Quinlan answers, grimacing at the probable hint that she’s noticed how he feels. His use of Khaleen helps protect his cover for the very reason he has to hope Aayla doesn’t notice. Possession is forbidden to a Jedi. He doesn’t think Aayla would report him to the Council, but she _would_ tell Tholme, and he doesn’t want them looking too hard at Khaleen and damaging her value to her handler.

He hauls himself up onto the ledge beside the pit. At least the stench will corrupt any scent spoor—and does it feel funny to want to _reduce_ that.

Khaleen stirs.

“Did you get what you were sent after, girl?” The question is gruff, a declaration of distance that he hopes Khaleen will understand. If not the words, at least his stance, and the fact that he isn’t helping her up.

The pulse of hurt is a lightning strike, cutting through the sky of her emotions, but she lifts herself and offers him the disk. “I wouldn’t fail you, Korto.”

He wishes that were true.

* * *

Back in his ‘office’, he tosses the disk to Aayla to check out, a distraction and a consolation prize as he gets what happened from Khaleen. Aayla stays in line of sight, barely, and Khaleen lets timidity reign in her body and words and pitch.

He leans against a cargo container, arms crossed, to keep to his role of distant handler. If Aayla weren’t there, would Khaleen let him hold her, reassure himself that she’s okay?

Of course she would. He’s pretty sure she’d be equally accepting even if he were the type to crack bones or mar flesh. Dooku wouldn’t let her do less.

Yet this is his anchor for sanity in the midst of the shadows. It’s exhausting and sad. The death awaiting him at the end of this mission, whenever he gets there, will be a relief.

Khaleen says the target caught the thievery so fast that he ”must be hypersensitive or something,” and her volume and desperation increase at the end of, “Well, I’m really _sorry_ , Korto!”

Basic misdirection from her core point, that something’s fishy about the Falleen, Zenex. Maybe even Force sensitivity.

He orders Tookarti to go find out more about Zenex—who he’s meeting, when and where, what’s up and why. Better to dig into that now, to have it in case they end up needing it. Odds aren’t good that they’ll be able to return the disk without making Zenex suspicious.

Quinlan also orders Tookarti to go. Khaleen’s as loyal to him as she can be. Tookarti’s just playing loyal because he has to, and Quinlan doesn’t want the Chadra-Fan too close. Especially not when Aayla might force Khaleen to choose a side, just by foolishly destroying her plausible deniability.

“Vos?” Aayla calls. She wants to see him ‘privately’, again, because she’s activated the disk.

He goes, discreetly blocks the view with his body so Khaleen can avoid seeing it.

Aayla must not notice their observer, because her voice isn’t nearly quiet enough as she describes the disk’s contents and says they have to get it to the Council immediately.

Despite the glitterryll, he remembers a little of Aayla as a child. She’d been an eager girl of quick eye and mind and smile, whose sharp temper got the best of her over her uncle’s death. (In truth, the culpability was more hers than his, with a solid helping of ‘accident’, but he will take that knowledge to his death before hurting her with it.)

Aayla is not a fool.

Aayla’s suggestion is _foolish_ , and it misses the entire point of his current operation.

“No. We have to _copy_ the disk.” He explains that knowing where the Separatists _are_ going to attack is far more valuable than knowing where they _were_ going to attack. If the original disk is delivered to the Council, the Separatists will know their plan is compromised.

He takes a moment to appreciate that the information leak is _already_ known to Dooku—or will be shortly—and that someone in the information chain therefore _wants_ the Republic to know they’re going to attack Kamino. The Separatist reaction or lack thereof to a leak Dooku knows about will reveal much about the power dynamics involved.

In case Aayla hasn’t noticed it, herself, he explicitly points out, “Zenex has to be allowed to recover the disk.”

“He’ll kill Khaleen!” Aayla protests immediately, as if that’s the only possible way for the Falleen to recover it. “Quin, we’re _Jedi_! We do not _sacrifice_ lives like this!”

Her reaction is gut deep, admitting much about the assumptions she’s made, and the crow swallows a chunk of his heart.

 _Who said anything about sacrificing her?_ he wants to demand, but that would admit too much, and the presumption that he’d take advantage of someone’s trust to manipulate her to her death makes ice burn in his gut.

He takes refuge from his emotions by grabbing hold of logic—it’s Tholme’s go-to tactic, something Aayla should readily recognize. “We’d sacrifice our _own_ lives.”

“That’s _our_ choice! We cannot choose _for_ her—”

“What if I _volunteered_?” Khaleen cuts in, too late to stop Aayla from making clear what she thinks he’s doing, but before he has to find a response. “I overheard what you were saying.”

Is Khaleen stalling a moment to collect her thoughts, or is she covertly scolding Aayla for her presumption?

“I sensed something _different_ about you from the first, Korto.”

_No. Don’t. Don’t give your handler reason to dispose of you._

“I’m guessing you’re both Jedi, right? And this needs doing, so…I volunteer.”

The ‘guess’ maintains a veneer of deniability, but Khaleen’s picked a side. _His_ side.

His side, against Aayla. And his side, against Dooku.

“Why?” Aayla asks. “Knowing the risk—”

“What? Only _Jedi_ can be heroes?” Khaleen snaps, something bright and brilliant flaring in her as she jumps to defend his willingness to endanger her—with her knowledge, with her consent. The gnawing on his heart pauses for a moment. The pain recedes, for a moment.

She justifies her willingness by insisting she, too, is a citizen of the Republic. (Is she?) She describes it as corrupt but keeping order, even where she lives on the fringe. The justification is even believable.

It’s also a smokescreen, drawing attention away from how she’s chosen _him_.

He can’t let that go unacknowledged. He lays a hand on her shoulder, the most intimate he can be without breaking Jedi mores. “Okay. We’ll protect you if we can. And…” How can he convey this, without endangering anyone? “You really have my respect, Khaleen.”

“That’s all I ask, Korto,” she replies, her shoulder pliant in his hand, so he dares hope she understands.

It’s not easy to step away. “We’ll get word to Zenex that you want to negotiate.”

* * *

The bridge where Zenex sets the meet is not ideal, for protecting Khaleen. Quinlan steels himself to the possibility that he might have to watch her die, and he makes sure that Aayla gets the farther observation post because he doesn’t trust her to intercede based on logic rather than emotion. (Considering the woman at risk is _his_ attachment, there’s something ironic in that.)

As soon as she’s in position, Aayla bitches over the comm. “I don’t _like_ this, Quin! I can see them, but I’m too far off to do anything. Quin? Are you reading me?”

It’s all he can do not to snap at her presumption that he likes it any more than she does. There are two targets to protect—Khaleen, and the disk—and only one Jedi in range for a prompt intervention.

The op is small enough that he can justify prioritizing Khaleen over the disk—it’s only the _first_ time they have prior alert of where the Separatists plan to attack, and Dooku knows of it; it’s not some unique window that they risk much by losing—but he won’t always be able to do that.

Khaleen’s fear is a beacon on that bridge, so much brighter and louder than the chill of Zenex or the boredom of his guards. Quinlan keeps his Force presence masked, in case any of them aren’t nulls, but he keeps careful watch over her, on the body he knows so much better than he should.

Zenex was competent enough to promptly notice a theft, so Quinlan doesn’t expect him to just accept the disk and let Khaleen walk away. The fact that the Falleen murders his own guards is something of a relief, because it’s so straightforward, even while it also makes him tense from fear that Zenex’ll shoot _Khaleen_ before he sees that she’s fine.

“You–you promised you wouldn’t kill me…” Khaleen squeaks, sincerely terrified—possibly of death, possibly of the other reason a male might kill all known witnesses but leave the pretty female alive.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Zenex answers. “You’re going to kill _yourself_.”

Nothing prurient in the skip, then, just a male who keeps his word to the letter. Shame he had to pick the wrong side.

“Quin, the blasted Falleen is using his pheromones on her!”

 _You think?_ “Don’t interfere.”

Quinlan’s knowledge of Khaleen’s body makes it all the easier to slide along her muscles and subtly block her index finger from being able to flex enough to pull a trigger. Whether she fights or submits, she won’t be shooting herself in the head.

She fights, his Khaleen, and manages to gasp out a question, to ask Zenex why he’s doing this. Quinlan’s pride is an ember he keeps buried safe inside.

“ _Quin_!” Aayla protests, before Khaleen’s prod takes even has time to bloom.

She’s too far to interrupt. He ignores her.

Zenex admits that he wants the _destruction_ of the Republic, not just succession from it, and that he would sacrifice his own people for that goal. Two important details to know, at least one of which seems at odds with how he’s keeping his word not to kill Khaleen directly. He abides by honor without known witnesses, yet would betray his own people? _Huh._

“Pull the trigger,” Zenex says. “Die for me.”

Khaleen doesn’t stop struggling. Despair hits when her control slips, but then she discovers how her finger won’t pull the trigger. He has to concentrate through her flood of relief, to maintain it, and Aayla’s freakout in the Force isn’t helping.

Before he can lose control, he jumps out of the maintenance tunnel, onto the bridge, Force-pulling the blaster to his hand. “No. No sacrifices. Not today.”

The last sentence is a gentle warning to Khaleen, that he can’t always put her first.

She understands it, too, from her resignation when Zenex offers him a choice between her and the disk, tossing them both off the bridge, and her surprise when he catches her.

“Easy,” he coaxes. “Steady yourself. Let me focus and draw us up…”

And it’s going to be an ‘us’, for as long as he can swing it.

Pain blazes through his crunching fingers when Zenex steps on them, gloats about him making the wrong choice. Quinlan grits his teeth, refusing to release either the bridge or Khaleen. He could toss her up, but then Zenex would probably kill her before he could get himself in place. Holding on is the safest route for them both.

The second-safest option is falling—it’s far, but that’s plenty of time to call upon the Force to cushion their landing—but that would concede the mission and lose the disk altogether, and it would put them at risk from whatever goons Zenex still has around the station, so he’d rather not. He has backup today, and he can afford the wait.

Aayla reaches the bridge, and the Falleen keeps gloating.

Quinlan can’t help but snark, “If you want to see a lightsaber, I suggest looking to your right.”

She obliges, igniting hers. “Master Vos made the right choice.”

 _Glad to have your approval._ The thought is more bitter than he likes. Aayla’s talking to Zenex, him, and Khaleen all at once—and the words carry different significance to each target. Quinlan is well aware he’s a Jedi, and he _just_ warned Khaleen she’s expendible.

“He knew I would be there to get the disk. You face _two_ Jedi, Falleen. Might I suggest the best course is _surrender_?”

Predictably, Zenex tries to shoot her. She deflects it—far away, rather than back at the shooter and ending it. Zenex lets the pheromones flow, and she plays along, even disengaging her lightsaber.

_Drawing it out, Aayla? Really?_

She’ll report it as giving the Falleen ample opportunity to change his mind and do the right thing, but he’s not going to. Quinlan knows that. Aayla knows that. She’s just annoyed with him and using this to show it.

Quinlan holds Khaleen close, keeps her under him so a blaster bolt will have to hit him first, if Zenex tries to shoot her.

 _And_ he has to struggle against the order when the Falleen commands, “Let go.” It’s to Aayla, but the pheromones reach Quinlan. _Lovely_ situation for finding out he’s bi.

(On second thought, maybe that’s why the thought of re-meeting Obi-Wan makes him uncomfortable?)

(Jedi really should have their orientations in their personnel files, at least for the sake of physiological vulnerabilities, but he can just imagine others’ reactions if he suggests it.)

“Your will is _mine_ ,” Zenex declares.

“No. I am a Jedi, and my will is my own.” She reactivates her lightsaber and stabs him.

It’s about damn time.

* * *

Aayla levitates Khaleen up until she can get a good grip and pull. He waits for both females to be stable and standing, then jumps up, himself.

The disk isn’t far, and he fetches it. It can still be of use.

“Looks like Zenex won’t make his rendezvous,” Aayla comments, so she’s probably going to include ‘trying to salvage the mission’ as an excuse for her delay, in the mission report.

Or maybe she forgot about the fallback Quinlan already set up. “Depends on if Tookarti can find out who Zenex was to meet, where, and when.”

She frowns.

He can’t say he’s surprised that she sticks around, or that she invites herself along on the drop after Tookarti comes through. (Why does Dooku want this sabotaged?)

She lets him approach the Neimodian alone, though, staying outside the casino.

“Waiting for _this_?” he asks, showing the disk and letting the sentient’s emotions confirm the lead.

The Neimodian splutters both acknowledgement and denial, and Quinlan promptly mind-tricks the being into thinking all went as planned, mimimizing the psychological stress inflicted on his mind. There’s also less risk of it going sour than a more conventional con.

He steps out, heading for Khaleen— _She’s okay; she’s fine; she’s chosen me_ —and Aayla intercepts, a vivid reminder that he’s not free to choose her back.

“We’re lucky the contact wasn’t _also_ a Falleen. They aren’t open to suggestion _.”_

 _The kriff?_ “Falleen seldom leave their planet. Reasonable odds.” _Better_ than reasonable, actually, but he’s being polite.

“I’ll get back to Coruscant with our copy. The Council is calling all Jedi to act as generals with the clone army. Will you be coming back, too, Quin?”

At least she asks rather than expects, so she understands him a little. “No,” he answers directly. He reminds her of the spy networks he’s running with Tholme, that he’s of most use here. “I work best in the shadows.”

It’s where he fits, too.

“Don’t let yourself be swallowed by them, Quin. There _has_ to be a difference between us and those we fight. We are Jedi. We must _remain_ Jedi.”

 _Must we?_ “And if we lose? If more of us die?”

“Then we lose and we die and are still Jedi.”

So she doesn’t know the truth of his assignment—and ignores just how many sentients would suffer, if the Order fell. If the sacrifice of one could prevent that…how could they not?

Jedi honor and respect life, yes, but Quinlan is always caught off-guard by how few understand that sometimes, you have to lose a battle on your own terms in order to actually save _anyone_.

“By the way,” Aayla adds, her tone gentling. “You know that girl wasn’t fighting just for the Republic.”

Khaleen isn’t fighting for the Republic at all.

“She was fighting for _you_. She is in love with you.”

The words are a verification, making sure that he knows, that he’s accounting for it in his treatment of her. It’s almost an apology for assuming he was taking advantage. It’s also, potentially, an unflattering evaluation of his observational skills. “I know.”

“Then tread _carefully_ , Quin. For your sake, as well as hers.”

Ah. She’s noticed his own affection—and she can tell that he has no intention of pushing Khaleen away. That attention to _him_ is comforting, even as the knowledge that Tholme will soon know makes him fear how he’ll keep Khaleen alive. “I will.”

He leaves Aayla behind him, ready to continue his assignment with the woman whose life depends on him ‘treading carefully’. “Come, Khaleen. We have work to do.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Between Republic comic #49: _Sacrifice_ and #54: _Jedi Fugitive_ …
> 
> **Warning:** Contains witnessed rape and slavery-related abuse.
> 
> This chapter also has a bit more, ah, physical interaction between Quin and Khaleen. References to F/F and polyamory.
> 
> **I take more liberties with canon in this chapter.** Legends!Asajj—at least what I’ve seen of her—was…essentially angry to the point of insanity. I suspect she was set that way as an intentional mirror to Anakin, particularly with the slave background and the guardian who was presumably abandoned and murdered due to negligence, on the Order’s part.
> 
> But Disney!canon seems to have softened her, made her and Quinlan a might-have-been, and my brain took that + his Legends!girlfriend + common interpretations of him + some of my headcanon about Eirtaé + my assumption that reputation management was a factor in some missions, and…this resulted.
> 
> This chapter is also unbeta’d. Feel free to prod me about missing pieces or transitions or whatever. I’m not sure how it turned out. Hope it’s okay and won’t need tossing and redoing…because I seriously wasn’t kidding in the first chapter’s note on my utter aro aceness.
> 
> What do y’all think?

After leaving Aayla and Tookarti back in the Wheel, Quinlan takes Khaleen into hyperspace on his ship, the _Skorp-Ion_ , which he’d liberated from an owner with a gambling problem. There aren’t many wounds to tend, mainly his stepped-on hand.

Khaleen watches him for a few seconds before huffing and reaching for the bacta wrap. “Give me that.”

She’s good at applying it, too, efficient and gentle at once, with a minimalism that admits even bacta isn’t a resource she takes for granted. He figures it’s his upbringing that makes him so bad with it, in comparison—he learned to use it in a context where extras were available.

Once she’s finished, she replaces minstrations with massage.

He lets her, lets his hand relax in her grip, and watches her with a hooded gaze as he enjoys the sensation. It gives him time to think about what she’s done, what she’s decided, and how his well-intended former master and apprentice might destroy any safety he can give her. “I can’t always protect you.”

Her surprise rings sincere in the Force. “Of course not. But if you can…”

_If you can, you will_ , she doesn’t finish saying, maybe because she doesn’t want to obligate him to contradict her.

Not that he would. He wants to say that protecting her _if he can_ isn’t enough, but that sentiment is a side effect of growing up valued as a person. The fact that it _is_ enough for her admits much about her own past.

He sets a gentle hand against her hip—it’s an offer, maybe a request.

She trusts him enough to ignore it, to step away, and he is glad.

* * *

Their pursuit of hints lands proves more fruitless than not, so he focuses on Nar Shadda, on building his contacts there. It’s a major trade hub, neither Republic nor Separatist; there are surely _some_ threads to be found, somewhere in the morass.

Quinlan pulls Tookarti from the Wheel, for security’s sake. In-person missives can’t be intercepted or hacked (he says). He doesn’t admit to also using the move to briefly bug Tookarti’s equipment and get objective evidence that he’s Dooku’s agent, before removing the hack so nobody can find it.

Khaleen starts admitting her past—not the handler, Quinlan cuts her off every time she starts going there with her body or emotions or words, but her _past_.

“What’s this shit? I’ve had better bread in _prison_ ,” she lies at one cantina they visit, and he watches her leverage her jailtime into better service from the business, out of fear of her presumed _skills_. (“The crew bungled a heist and pinned it all on me,” she explains quietly, though she doesn’t say what they tried to steal.)

“There were more ‘tasteful clientele’ in my mum’s bordello,” she scoffs when a casino’s manager tries to use her cropped clothing and fishnets to justify his demand that they leave. Quinlan just looks to the pile of chips beside him and raises an eyebrow, a pointed counter that the manager didn’t mind them until they started winning.

(“Born there,” she admits later, and he presumes it’s about the bordello. “Fled to the streets before I could catch a kid from it.” He doesn’t ask if that means she was rented out that young, or if she just knew rentals were coming.)

The heart-to-heart comes in snatches, in snippets, and it could easily be all part of her cover, except…

“ _Don’t_ ,” she blurts once, when he’s about to—well. He rolls away, pulling her against his chest (loosely, wordlessly saying she doesn’t _have_ to stay). Her heart races at first, but she leans into him and takes comfort in his skin without expecting him to take anything more.

_She said no,_ pulses in his chest, a bright joy he embraces with relief. She trusted him to stop, to heed her admission and not use it against her.

Slowly, her trembling body steadies, goes pliant. Her pulse steadies, slows, before changing for a whole different reason.

“You don’t have to,” he murmurs outright. Her no is all the pleasure he needs.

She pauses, eyes him, and answers with her body. He lets her lead, lets her choose, and she showers his face and shoulders with lips and teeth without tongue. It isn’t even that he necessarily likes _biting_ , just the feel of something hard against skin, and she’s noticed that.

After, she presses her face into his chest. “Korto?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want…that?”

The hesitance defines _that_ as what she’d needed him to stop. He strokes her back. “It’s fine, Khaleen.”

“But do you _like_ it?” she presses, and she’s going to keep pressing until he answers.

He stares down at the purple hair cascading down his chest, wonders if she’ll ever let the strawberry blond grow in. He could just chalk it up to her being his first, as she guessed—she could assume it’s a Jedi thing, that inexperience is the only reason he’s so ignorant of himself. And maybe it is, but… He wants her to _know_.

“I lost my memory a few years ago.”

She freezes, hesitantly lifts her head and peers up at him.

“I say ‘a few years’… It’s been eight, maybe nine, now. Got bits back, mainly from…” He wriggles his fingers, indicating his talent. “I’ve figured out some more, like the t–tongue thing.” Wow. The body memory is _bad_. “Don’t _know_ what caused that, but…obvious.”

Khaleen grimaces in agreement.

“Aayla lost hers, too. That’s the Twi’lek you met. She was my apprentice.” He sighs lightly, just a soft breath. “She got it back, though. Braintails don’t wipe well.”

Khaleen curls up against him. “So she remembers who you were, not who you are.”

“She remembers her teacher. I don’t even remember my own. I’ve met him, but… I know him as an old man who walked in while these Anzati were trying to murder me and started bitching at me to calm the kriff down because Jedi didn’t use fear or anger—or, as I found out right after, let themselves get pissed off at an alleged friend who got some Jedi killed.”

He thinks it’s the first time he’s expressly, explicitly admitted to her that he’s a Jedi. How much would Dooku have told her?

“You call him that, huh? ’Old man’?”

The thought of Windu’s expression if Quinlan _did_ call his former master that makes him snicker. “No. His name’s Tholme. If he ever had another, he got rid of it back before any mission reports I’ve seen.”

She peers up at him again. “You’re serious. You actually lost your memory.”

“I was tracking this drug. Glitteryll. Turned out Aayla’s uncle was shipping it.” _So was one of my cousins,_ he bites his tongue against adding. He’s not sure if Asanté was in on the con from the start, just that she tried to collect the bounty on his head. To this day, he’s not sure how much of the local creature killing her was his doing, if maybe he in his newly mind-wiped addlement had actually summoned it rather than just sensed it coming.

Khaleen hisses and strokes his chest almost idly. But she drops the topic, drops a kiss against his skin, so he thinks she means it as comfort.

She shifts her attention lower, and he tenses with the knowledge that her mouth’s headed for his groin. The position’s useful—oh so easy to manipulate for his cover as a douchebag and hers as his toy—but he grabs her by the hair on the back of her neck, stopping her.

Her breath is warm against his belly. “Trust me?” she murmurs, and presses lips and teeth there, without any tongue.

Does he trust her not to lick?

Yes. Yes, he does.

But he can’t get himself to loosen his fingers.

Heartbeats pass in silence. Her face against his stomach, as she straddles his thighs. His fingers woven through her hair, as he restrains her neck and head.

He can’t control his own strength, right now—thus the grip on her _hair_ , not her neck—and if he lets himself respond, he’ll be rough, violent, whether he recoils or participates. He knows this feeling from how it affects him when sparring; he _would_ injure her. She would let him and forgive him, but he doesn’t want to do that.

And he understands what she’s thinking. The position is _useful_ —useful for their covers, useful for their work. People don’t expect a guy with a mouth near his saber to be paying attention to what’s around him.

If she wants to help his body build positive associations with that trigger, he’s willing to try. She understands the risks. She knows how easily this could end badly, could end with her hurt.

He clenches his jaw and mentally recites the Jedi Code as a talisman against moving.

Her hands move down and _dear Force_ his fingers are tightening, pulling—

Climax, when it comes, is a relief in more ways than usual.

She lets out a breath, herself, as they carefully untangle his fingers from her hair. Purple strands remain his hand as she straightens, still seated. She grimaces and rubs the back of her head.

“Khaleen—”

Her finger presses against his lips. “I know, Korto.”

_My name isn’t Korto._

She’s not looking at his face, maybe even avoiding the sadness in his eyes on purpose. “You know, most guys get freaked over _teeth_ on dick.”

Is that a question for if he wants to try that, see if it helps? Or just an oblique joke about what repulses him? “Yeah?”

“Yeah. All the columns on giving head, top piece of advice: do not use your teeth.” She rocks a little, flexes.

Again? “Really?”

“What, you can’t short-circuit the cooldown with those Jedi powers of yours?”

There’s a smile in her voice, and he pauses and realizes that, yes, he actually _could_ —and his stomach twists a little with the question of how she knows that. What did Dooku do, exactly, to recruit her? “Do you actually want to go again, or do you just want your finish?”

She gives a coy smile, but her eyes are tired. He strokes along one eyebrow, calling her out on that. She sighs and slips off him, cuddles against his side.

He runs a hand along her skin, and he wishes she could gasp the right name. He basks in her contentment, though.

“Korto? How much trouble would you be in, if they found out? About… About me?”

He can misdirect her, minimize her concern, or continue the honesty. “Either I’m abusing your attachment to me, or I’m exercising an attachment to you. Either way, it’s…not what Jedi _are_.”

She freezes, then stares him in the eyes. “Seriously? You could get _expelled_ for this?”

Quinlan shrugs. It’s not the worst charge they could bring against him. “I’m considered a shitty Jedi, anyway. It’s why I ended up with this assignment.”

He still hasn’t told her what his endgame actually is. She hasn’t asked.

Khaleen huffs. “So they’re putting you in a situation where you _have_ to do shit, and then they’re going to punish you for it.”

Pretty much.

She grumbles invectives.

He grimaces. “Please don’t.”

“Fergutz. They’re assholes!”

“They don’t mean to be,” he says quietly. That’s the truth, too, though that almost makes things hurt worse.

She sighs…settles against him…shifts into sleep…

What if he _was_ expelled, instead of executed? What if he was free to _choose_ , free to have someone—to have _Khaleeen_ —in every way? Would she want him? Would she stop the contraceptive, bear his child…

He feathers his fingers along her stomach, without waking her. They _both_ have enemies. Could they afford a child? The risk…

Tholme knows what significance a child carries, for Kiffar. He would bend all the rules he had to, to keep her safe, for Quinlan’s sake.

Does he even want children?

Does she?

Quinlan sets the line of thought aside as unproductive and lets himself sleep.

* * *

It’s not long after that, at a bar that’s something worse than seedy, that Khaleen curls against him and uses his person to hide from other patrons’ view. “No no no no no,” she murmurs, staring in terror towards a booth he can’t see from his angle.

Quinlan reaches into the thick, roiling despair of the Force to check, and the sensations slam into him of greed and pleasure and _oh Force that hurts_ —

And this is a bar he’s not used before—he has no allies, doesn’t even know which Hutt runs the place, yet. Others are ignoring the rapist, so he’s a regular. There’s nothing Quinlan can do that wouldn’t break his cover. Nothing that wouldn’t end up with the victim (and probably Khaleen and possibly him) _dead_.

The victim might die anyway, especially if she wants to. Quinlan wracks his brain, calculates options, keeps coming up null or negative. Kriff it. “Khaleen?” he demands, voice low. Maybe she’ll have an idea. “ _Khaleen_?!”

Her head’s not with him, and the _why_ hits him with a sick jolt.

He wraps her in his arms, pulls her into the shadows between him and the wall, and sends what comfort he can in the Force, to her, to the male’s victim, and curses his assignment. His job’s too deep for him to dare break it for this.

More innocents will be sacrificed before it’s over. He’s known that from the start.

Quinlan still gets Khaleen out of there as quickly as he safely can, at the expense of missing a window to observe someone who he’s pretty sure is tied to Tookarti’s _other_ priorities. The slave, there’s no way to help right now, though he does discreetly look into the matter while Khaleen eats dinner in the galley.

He stays seated there, in the cockpit, staring at the proof of how _useless_ he is. If he had just four more points of contact in a freedom chain, he’d be able to get the slave to a safe house, but he doesn’t. Can he even afford to spend the time to set it up, with how much of his mission is running in circles?

What if he misses a lead because he’s busy saving slaves?

What if saving slaves is what gives him the lead he needs?

The hatch buzzes.

He startles, and he hears something drop in the galley. “Khaleen?” he calls, getting up and warily approaching the hatch. The Force presence is minimal, but it’s nobody he recognizes. “I got it.”

He’s poised with his hand ready to grab blaster or lightsaber from behind him when he opens the hatch.

The vistor is an oddly prim woman in ratty spacer leathers that conflict with her perfectly coiffed blond hair, elaborate in a way that requires both time and money to set and maintain. She’s young, maybe even younger than Khaleen, and she lifts her chin to meet his gaze, her blue eyes wary. “Hi. Any suggestions whom I should ask, for lifting a slave?”

He scowls. The convenience is worse than when he’d met Khaleen, and that accent… What’s Core upper class doing on _Nar Shadda_? “Go kill yourself on someone else.”

He’s about to tap the button to close the door when he catches a flicker in the Force.

He drops his hand and grabs her arm instead, twisting it as he steps out and shuts the hatch behind him. She gasps in surprise, stumbles, but doesn’t vocalize as he shoves her onto a cargo container.

“Who are you?” He doesn’t know her. He doesn’t think he’s ever known her—she’s Force-sensitive, yeah, but no Jedi. Her aura feels as if she’s self-taught, which makes her ability to _mask_ rather impressive. Even most Jedi can’t do that.

She rubs her palms together—maybe an idle, casual motion, maybe an obvious cue that she’s not poised to bring a weapon to bear. “I thought…” She pauses, reconsiders her words. “We were on Tatooine at the same time. We never met, but you observed my employer, who was there at the time with an associate of yours.”

Tatooine was before the glitteryll. Quinlan has to mull on the mission reports a bit, to piece the details together. The only other Jedi he encountered on that planet was Qui-Gon, in the company of…Queen Amidala.

His visitor is claiming to be Naboo intelligence.

“Nice,” he says. “Still doesn’t tell me who you are.”

“Look, _I_ could feel your upset in the bar, and I don’t know what I’m doing. A lot of the count’s top guys used to be Jedi. Do you really want them to notice that?”

He double-checks his Force presence, but his usual shield is active, enough that she _shouldn’t_ have been able to hear him…unless she both shares Quinlan’s particular talent for that and is strong enough to be a Jedi, either of which meant she _should_ have been Found as a child. Why wasn’t she?

“Also,” she says, “Do you have anybody on Telos? That’s the link I’m missing, and I’ll lose my window to slip her out if it doesn’t happen tonight. I have everything taken care of but that.”

He crosses his arms, looks her over. The Force says she’s telling the truth. Discreetly, but the truth. He politely offers a truth in return: “You’re too coiffed for those leathers.”

She smiles, and something in it feels like glass poised to shatter. “Of course. I’m a noblewoman who’s fled the husband her father chose for her—and the lord of my house is an associate of the chancellor’s.”

That is truth, too, and one that possibly explains why she’s so reluctant to give her name. “Not interested in the fiancé your father—” No, that isn’t what she said. He narrows his gaze at her.

Her phrasing implied it’s a fiancé, but what it _actually_ said is quite different.

He steps back to the _Skorp-Ion_ ’s entrance, lets her in, and doesn’t hide that he’s ready to retaliate if she proves false. She glances at his hand, near his holster, and smiles in approval as she follows him in. She pauses a moment, then heads for the galley where Khaleen is, without him indicating anything.

Fits with how she’d sensed him. “Reader?” he asks, testing her awareness of her own skill.

“Is that what you Jedi call it?” she replies lightly as she picks up the cup Khaleen must’ve dropped. She puts it on the table as she sits herself, across from Khaleen. “Hi.”

Khaleen’s stiff, gaze darting between them, but her posture proclaims that she’s tough. “Who are you?”

The blonde considers her, as if she heard the fear underlying the grit. Probably did. “I’m an emancipator, and your reactions in Aruk’s bar suggest you’ll be fine with that.”

“Aruk?” Quinlan asks.

“He’s okay, for a Hutt. Very traditional. He doesn’t really care for the Republic or for Jedi, but he puts his principles over profit, and he takes care of assets he finds valuable.” The blonde stares at table, an ever-so-slight smirk about to crack from her face. “He keeps bounties off my back, and I make him look more valuable to Republic Intelligence than he is.”

She’s obviously talking around something.

“Where’d you learn to mask your aura?” he asks directly.

She sighs, and there’s pain and resignation in the sound. “Picked it up.”

“Where’d she learn to what?” Khaleen asks.

“She’s Force-sensitive.”

“Not a Jedi.” She adds, absentmindedly, “Not a Sith, either.”

Most people don’t know what a Sith is. “The Sith Master is masking his aura.”

She freezes.

“That’s where you picked it up. You know him.” The conclusion is a stretch, but it fits. Especially with how she’s reacting.

But her blank stare could ‘read’ either way, really. Can’t he get a break somewhere? He sighs, waves dismissal.

The conversation shifts to getting the slave out. The Naboo girl—Raya, she calls herself, though he’s pretty sure that’s a cover—drops him a contact line before she leaves to handle the theft and escape.

“For either of you,” she says outright as she goes, with a flicker to her eyelid that makes him fear she might’ve noticed Khaleen’s other boss. “Thank you.”

* * *

Maybe it’s that he returns to Aruk’s bar, to test for himself if Raya’s read of the Hutt is right. (It is.) Or maybe it’s just that he’s aware of Raya now. Whatever the reason, he starts seeing her _everywhere_ , in the background as he searches for leads on the Sith. (And isn’t that interesting?)

She’s quiet, keeping to herself, gambling moderately in both amount and success. Gossip says that she rarely bets on the races, but when she does, she always wins big. (Prescience?) That any bounty hunter who tries to grab her vanishes—maybe not at first, but somewhere between grabbing her and delivering the bounty, they do. (Who the frip are her father and husband, if one or both are sending _bounty hunters_ for her?)

Quinlan gambles some, too, though he’s careful to not be too lucky. Raya discreetly cedes him the pot, sometimes, especially when a game comes down to the two of them. Sometimes she just folds on a hand of sabaac and heads to the bar, leaving Quin playing against an asshole he would’ve gladly cleaned out entirely if that wouldn’t sabotage his welcome.

Khaleen’s the one who notices that the very fact that Raya isn’t harassed by the hardasses around them means she must’ve done _something_ significantly public and gruesome enough to be left alone—and to scare people enough that they won’t talk about it. She’s too young, too pretty, too Core, too rich…and not _that_ connected to Aruk. Slavers should be pursuing her, so why aren’t they?

It takes him almost a month to realize that assumption’s not quite right, either—and, embarrassingly, he figures _that_ out because he spots Raya in the company of Dooku’s right-hand witch.

Khaleen’s stepped away to the bathroom. Quinlan hesitates—the witch and Raya are both tossing shots, and Raya’s outright _giggling_ —and swaggers over. The chumminess with a Darksider gives another possibility for who scared the slavers into leaving the Naboo spy alone.

“Another round for the ladies,” he says, tossing the bartender a credit chip hopefully high enough to cover the cost.

Raya slants him an amused glance. Her finances are better than his. “Korto,” she says, “Asajj. Asajj, meet the Kiffar who’s been helping me with some of our mutual interests.”

What?

Ventress’s eyes narrowed at him. “Jedi.”

“No, no,” Raya protests. “You’re thinking of Quinlan Vos. This is _Korto_ Vos. He’s where I got that Telos contact, a few weeks ago.”

For a freedom chain, to rescue a slave. Ventress seeks that sort of thing?

“His girl’s around here somewhere—ah, Khaleen!”

Khaleen approaches hesitantly, cautiously, so much so that she surely knows who Ventress is.

He cuts his gaze to the witch, but she doesn’t give any sign of recognizing Khaleen. Hope blossoms, that maybe he has an in, even while fear burns. He needs to get Khaleen safe, somehow, but _how_?

As soon as she’s close enough, he pulls her into his arms, on this lap—a blatant statement of possession, not affection. She obliges with some indiscretions that solicit a few half-hearted grumbles from other patrons of the bar, and more than a little jealousy thickens the air.

Raya subtly clears her throat as she taps the bar to call for another drink. “Would you like a Sullustan Sunset, K?”

Khaleen wriggles in his lap as if she’s forgotten it’s not a chair. “I’d love one,” she says brightly, playing oblivious about how much he wants to take her back to the _Skorp-Ion_ , and not just to escape Ventress.

The coquetry makes him suspicious. He tucks his head and nibbles her earlobe, adjusts his hands so he skirts into indecency, himself.

She flushes and bites off a yelp, with hooded glance at the witch.

_Seriously?_ He pulls back, tilts so their gazes meet.

She actually folds in a little, letting sheepishness show.

If she’s attracted to Ventress, that’s her choice to make. He lets her go, to choose for herself whose company she wants to enjoy. Maybe it’s even how she passes intel to Dooku, but he hopes that it’s at least consensual—and hopes that the witch won’t hurt her.

Khaleen keeps her feet, though she still watches him uncertainly. That could be the war part of things, where she knows that he and Ventress would try to kill each other if on a battlefield. He doesn’t think she’s surprised that he’s letting her choose.

But the witch? Ventress stares at him. She waits for him to meet her gaze, then pointedly ogles Khaleen and stares back at him in open challenge, as if she’s threatening to steal some belonging of his, rather than a person whose body is theirs to share as they please.

Raya adjusts position, shifts her shoulders a bit, and lets out a quiet breath that sounds more resigned than anything else. Her voice, though, is even. “Shall I find us a booth?”

Without looking at any of them, she hops off the barstool and vanishes into the crowd.

_Vanishes._ Force Camouflage is even a rare skill among _Jedi_.

He stares after her a bit too long before returning his attention to Ventress, who’s waiting for him with a challenging glare.

Quinlan considers feeding her the answer she expects, some accusation, but…why? She’s helping Raya, not driving the blonde into the dark. “I was wondering how she knew what Sith were.”

Khaleen plants a little kiss on Ventress’s cheek, so they’ve probably been lovers before.

The uneasy glance she casts him says she _is_ uncertain about his reaction. And, maybe, implies that she never actually wanted him, after all.

“It’s your choice, Hentz,” he says quietly, as figurative minocks chew his gut.

He tosses enough credits on the bar to be _sure_ the tab’s settled and leaves.

* * *

He meditates through the night, with more of him than is polite focusing on Khaleen, tracking her in case she needs saving.

He doesn’t dwell on how, if Ventress turns on her, she’ll be dead long before he can intervene. The knowledge keeps sideswiping his thoughts anyway.

A polite chime at the entry hatch draws him out of the spiral—and it _is_ polite, a single chime that’s followed by a half-minute wait before it’s repeated. He’s not sure how many pass before he realizes what he’s hearing, but the patience makes him suspect who he’ll find on the other side even before he opens the hatch.

Raya carries a large bag, and she greets him by sticking a massive bottle of brandy in his hands. Another clinks in her carry-on as she passes him.

“You could’ve joined them,” she says, the brisk, matter-of-fact tone reminding him of…someone. Who? The memory slips through his fingers.

He considers Raya, a noblewoman who fled to _Nar Shadda_ to escape her husband, to escape the family that has ties to the chancellor. “’ _Them_ ’?” Not ’us’?

Disgust curls her face—subtlely, quickly, and promptly hidden, but it’s there. Sex respulses her. “If I’d had it my way, I wouldn’t have married at all.”

“So why did you?” Forced marriages are explicitly illegal in the Republic. That doesn’t make them impossible—there are all sorts of ways to remove a person’s options—but if she was smart enough to escape after the marriage, couldn’t she have dodged before?

And why stay married, if she finds the spouse so loathsome?

Raya takes the bag to the galley and dumps it on the counter. She pulls out a lopsided muffin, still warm from the oven, and pours a full glass of brandy.

The muffin, she hands to him. She tosses back half the brandy herself before she grabs another muffin of her own.

He watches her eat a few bites before he tries it. It falls apart in his hands, but the rich warm flavor is better than any food he’s had in a while.

“The chancellor is not what he seems,” she says finally.

“No shit. He’s a politician.”

She sighs a little, as if she’d hoped for a different response. “So why don’t _you_ play politics?”

He doesn’t follow her ‘so’. “What?”

“Maybe this war boils down to a Jedi-against-Sith thing, but it’s symbolized with _politics_. You’ve broken Republic law and betrayed Jedi mores, but you haven’t actually betrayed the Republic. If you’re trying to make someone think you’ve betrayed the Jedi…”

She is focused on her muffin, finishing that and her remaining half-glass of brandy. That gives him time to process that this Naboo spy somehow knows more about his mission than most of the Order does.

“What are you prattling about?” he asks, the disrespect of her intelligence tasting sour on his tongue.

Raya gives him a flat glance that reminds him how she tracked him even while he was shielded. Her finger to his lips makes him still, makes him stare, makes him realize he’s not seen her touch _anyone_.

Her fingers are small and cold, with a texture he’s afraid to look too closely at. She’s close enough that the bottle-refracted light glints on a scar that peeks out by her collar, which has slipped down a few millimeters. The scar makes him think of a lizvine barb, highly toxic, but more painful than fatal to Force-sensitives. (Not that he can remember how he knows that. Not that he can remember where that plant’s even from.)

How _did_ her father force her to marry?

“ _That_ , Vos,” she says quietly. “If you want to have a _chance_ of tricking the Sith, you’ll have to betray _the Republic_. So are you suggesting that to Tholme, or am I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commentary on how I did with portraying non-aceness would be appreciated as a present for my birthday week, even if it's to say I effed it up. [hopeful smile]
> 
> …but if you can't or don't want to, I understand.
> 
> * * *
> 
> With how Palpatine played all the games, even if "Raya" knows something, her hands are tied. Like, let's say she knows enough to be able to walk up to the Council and say "Hi, Palpy's the Sith Master you're looking for." The High Council would laugh her out of the room. Palpatine would know where she'd gone and retaliate. Even if the council did somehow believe her enough to act, Palpatine _still_ would be able to retaliate (either with Order 66 or against Padmé specifically) before anyone could stop him. She wouldn't have survived this far by underestimating him.
> 
> In this case, she's just shown Vos that she knows Ventress, reminded him she's Force-sensitive, _and_ admitted to knowing what his mission is. Alarm bells should be ringing. And that's aside from her specific warning that Palpatine's a façade!
> 
> In any event, the concept of her having prescience is assumption on Quinlan's part. For all he knows, she's engaging in a little insider trading. :)
> 
> And then if she were to get Quinlan's okay for her to talk to Tholme, that would give her quite nice cover to weasel closer to some more Jedi, to warn them, without losing her plausible deniability.
> 
> I hope I managed to convey how easy the hints were to overlook, despite how blatant they were. :)


End file.
